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Murder, Broads, And Bones (part 1)

February 7, 2013

murdered woman


I was sore all over, especially in my rump from the sex change.  It was nothing I hadn’t felt before.   This was my third one; the first two didn’t take, but this baby had all the indications of sticking.  The parts of me that weren’t there anymore weren’t coming back and the new parts were showing signs of not working anymore like the rest of me.  I was gonna like being a guy.  I knew from the first stitch I was right for it.  You see, I was a guy in girl’s body that was meant for a guy – an ugly broad, tall, flat chested, bow legged, hairy, with early signs of a five O’clock shadow; actually it was more like an eclipse.   I decided to look at the change as menopause that really works.  Layla, my secretary buzzed me.  I couldn’t afford both a secretary and an intercom so I hired a cute gal who had a special talent for sound effects.   After a minute of buzzing, a few ambulance sounds, and three kinds of ducks, Layla pretending to speak through a bull horn announced that my new client Ms. Harriet Barkley was on her way into my office.


Not just being a top notch private investigator, but also a former broad gives me an edge in knowing exactly what another broad is not trying to hide.  This dame was all woman, which made me feel for the first time that I was all man.  She was about to open her beautiful yapper when I asked “Do you want a cup of coffee?”

She looked around and said. “Sure I like taking risks.”

After her wise crack I was tempted to report her to the IRS; instead I asked Layla to bring us two cups.   Layla made her percolator sounds and used my old radiator to heat a milk carton of day old java that was a day old the first time I reheated it a few days back.  Age gives coffee character I told myself, hoping the stuff wouldn’t burn through my stitches and ruin my big boy underwear.

Layla handed Harriet a cup of coffee that now resembled quicksand.   Before she could pour the deadly stuff into her deadly body she was shot dead.  Harriet didn’t even have time to get nauseous, or vomit, or scream in pain.  Although Layla did it for her at one point even moving Harriet’s lips.  Harriet Barkly was now past tense. As I checked for a pulse that had already left the building, Layla called the police or at least made it sound like she did.   The bullet entered my room through a window without shattering any glass because I left it stuck open in a position that I  hoped would fit an air conditioner—if I and when I could afford one..  Layla offered to make the sound of shattering glass for atmosphere when another shot that almost neutralized my sex change and hit a metal cabinet ricocheted around the room, destroying most of the stuff in my office which should have been destroyed along time ago.

I grabbed Layla’s hand and ran into my windowless reception room and asked her if she was okay.  She said she was just a little sore, but that was expected considering she was her gynecologist’s first patient after he went blind.  Then she rested her head on my former broad’s shoulder and confessed to me that she loved me.  And she would love me no matter what sex I became or would become.  She’d love me for what ever I was at the time.  She had even gone to the hospital and saved the parts they removed.  I told her that they made me into a man and they didn’t remove any parts, they just added.  She apologized and said that was another transsexual she was once in love with. She told me he, or she, or whatever had died in a leaf blower accident and then began imitating the machine.  She was good.  Real good.  I even stopped to applaud and so did the cops as they entered my office.


The cops examined Harriet’s body closely, removing all her clothes and then dressing her in lingerie.  After they were through it was determined that she was indeed dead, still sexy, but like most corpses, she lacked passion.   Oh, and it was suicide.

“Suicide!” I shouted in surprise.  I asked them how she could have fired a shot through the window and hit herself while she was in my office.

The detective said, “She must have fired the shot from the other building ran across the street up six flights of stairs and into my office.  How else would she know where to stand so the bullet would hit her?”

He had a point there.  Still, I asked him about the other bullet that entered through the window after she died.  He said that must have been the second shot she fired before she left, in case she didn’t make it to the spot in time.  Somehow I wasn’t buying his explanation.   My gut was saying something didn’t fit.  I didn’t know what it was, but I was gonna find out.
The police and the crime scene unit had left but I knew they were coming back.  They forgot the body.  This time I examined her and I didn’t dress her in lingerie.  That was sick and in bad taste and besides Layla was now wearing it.   And she looked good so good I asked Harriet if she wanted to get into a threesome.   But then I remembered she was dead.  Layla intrigued by the threesome idea offered to imitate the sound of her heart beating, but by then the passion had passed.   I had work to do, a crime to solve, and a live girl in front of me in Victoria Secret underwear.  The kind of underwear I wanted to wear when I was a woman, but everyone including representatives of the company forbid me to do it.  I had this urge to dive on top of Layla, remove her lingerie, put it on and parade in front of the window hoping to get shot, or a least some cat calls.  But I knew neither was going to happen.   I was just having a small identity crisis. For a second I hated who I was and wanted to be shot, sliced up in tiny pieces and eaten by a starving dog team.  What’s the big deal?  We all feel like that at one time or another.

Before I could chew on that, Layla jumped on top of me and we made whoopee.   Yes, I had sex for the first time as a man to a woman lying on top of a dead woman.  Life was full of surprises.  While I was ravaging Layla I kept wondering,  am I compromising a crime scene? Okay, maybe I went a little too far when I tied Layla up in the yellow crime scene tape, or when I moved Harriet so I could make love to Layla while she was within the police outline of the body.  Sometimes you just got to go with the flow.  When it was over Layla and I lay exhausted, spent, in each others clothes and tangled up with in the limbs of a dead woman — Layla’s beautiful blue eyes matching Harriet’s new skin tone.   This was a moment I’d never forget.  A moment of triumph.  I had done the manly thing and all my stitches were in place except for the few that Layla was spitting out.   I was now in a quandary.  If I found the murderer, would I kill him myself, call the police or have all of them over for drinks?   If it wasn’t for Harriet’s death my sex life would not have come to life that day.  The only thing I knew for sure, except that Layla was a real blonde, her breasts were phonies, and I should have paid more and gotten a larger organ, was that I had to find the gun men.  (End Part 1)

From → Oddball Stories

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